Forbidden Fruit
by Amateur Magic
Summary: My name is Agni Lightstep and I'm going to die.


An angry clanking of metal rouses me from my slumber. Untangling myself slowly from the fine, cream-colored cotton sheets and heavy, brightly colored quilts, I blearily stare out the window. The sun slowly climbing over the steadily reddening horizon begins to stain the silver metal surfaces with a vivid, auburn glow.

I twist out my tangled nest of bedding: sheets that are too thing, blankets that are too wooly, and pillows that are too soft. I reach up and pull down the pod at the back of my head, letting loose waves of a fiery-red sea that tumbles and falls around my head and shoulders. In the dusty mirror, two keen amber eyes stare back at me sleepily. The breaking dawn's light penetrating the morning fog sets my fox-red hair ablaze in the light, playing harder into the name that I've lived with for fifteen years, Agni.

I shed my cotton nightgown to the heated, metal-plated floor and step into the shower's welcoming spray. As hot, foamy water pours over me, I begin to recall my previous day's events.

Hidden under the floorboards of my room are two slightly stale loaves of sourdough bread and half a bushel of apples. I was lucky yesterday. The market had been so busy that no one had noticed that a few loaves of bread and fruit had vanished without a coin in return. But then the fact registers in my mind at why it'd been so easy to take so much.

_Today's the Reaping..._

I suppose school might've been buzzing about with theories and fears of the Reaping, but I'd forgotten to listen this time. During the days before the black day of death, the market's always filled with activity created by people stocking up for the Hunger Games feast that every family either puts on or attends-every family, minus two, who spend the night with windows shut tight and dazzling lights off.

Even for a fairly wealthy District, food's been scarce for my family recently. And it's all my fault. All because I wasn't born strong. All because I'm simply can't manage the manual labor my father and brothers do to support the family. They'd hoped for a boy. I can see it in their eyes and in the way that they look at me. They'd needed me to pull my weight in the family so that we wouldn't go under. They depended on me to pull my weight. But instead of the physical wonder that they were counting on, they got me; a small, skinny girl with has more limbs then she does core, and just isn't built or able to follow in her father and brothers' pride.

I was eight when Mom decided to divorce Dad and leave with me. Though, I can't really say that their divorce was formal, as no paperwork was filled out to my knowledge. She just took me and moved. I was grateful to her. I took it as a gesture of love, but yet. She spends all her time with her hand clutched around a liquor bottle and her world blotted out by the effects of the vile stuff, along with me. I know she hates me too.

I try to pull my weight. I've taken tesserae every year since I qualified to help us get by in food. I work as a maid in the electrical labs and try to keep the house looking presentable, while trying not to get dropped out of school. But it just hasn't been enough. It never has been and never will be. When I was ten, I learned how to steal.

It started out hard. I, nine at the time, was just straining to take an apple from a neighbor's tree, which I followed by vigilant listening and waiting to see if he noticed. He didn't. So, I taught myself to steal more. Outrun and hide from angry shopkeepers when I failed and eventually lower my chance of failure with experience. And I've learned how to show restraint and take only what wouldn't be missed. But, that's a hard lesson to learn, especially when you're starving.

I shut off the water and step carefully over the lip of the tub. Wrapping myself in a towel, I wring my hair out over the sink. I wander back to my room and pull out my street clothes, a dark green shirt and tight, black pants with a rip in the left knee. I braid my hair down and twist it into a knot at the back of my head and cover it with a pale brown army cap, leaving only the tips of my long bangs peek out from beneath. I line my eyes with a pale green color and paint fake scars on my face on hands. I tug on my brother's old brown jacket and tie a black bandanna around my mouth and nose. There're plenty of wandering thieves in District Five and no one has ever noticed one more.

I pad carefully down the hall and poke my nose into my mother's bedroom. I can see her still passed out on the bed with a liquor bottle tipped and a puddle of its vile contents making a still puddle around the glass container. I take note of the label and notice that it's a milder brand than her usual drink. I've learned to tell the liquor's effects by the label and their smell. A small part of me wants to hope that maybe she's still worried about the Reaping and the fact that she might lose me to the Capitol. But then I remind myself that this is one of the few days that Mom can see Dad and my older twin brothers, Flint and Onyx. I close her door, step into my street boots, and leave the house in a rush.

The market is relatively quiet. Venders haven't arrived for their shifts before the Reaping. I pray I might be able to get my hands on some butter and maybe some cheese for the morning meal and the feast later tonight and maybe Dad'll see that I'm worth something.

I creep up to the back of Dairy and peer into the dark windows where a couple dozen cows are being milked by a machine while then milled about and crewed their cud. Not a soul is in sight.

I creep around the back, careful to keep below the windows and push into the sparse bushes. Dropping to my knees, I quickly unbury my secret entrance to the cellar, which I keep covered with a metal plate that matches the walls and ceiling of the interior.

I dig the soil away, remove the slate, and slide into the darkness of the cool cellar. Golden light is seeping through the cracked and tinted windows, slowly lighting the room and making it harder for me to hide in the shadows. The wetness of the old room makes old spider webs shine in the gloom.

I'm careful to steer clear of the neatly stacked jugs of milk. You couldn't take one without it being missed from the display. Piled in one the corners are wheels of goat cheese and tubs of sweet cream. Tucked into a corner is a barrel that holds butter.

I pry off the lid to the butter barrel and take out a jar and a wooden spoon from inside my coat. After I fill the jar, I smooth out the surface of the butter, tuck the jar and spoon back into my coat, and pop the lid back on the barrel.

I manage to swipe a block of swiss cheese and a small container of yogurt before I dare not take anymore. I stuff my prizes into my jacket and crawl out of the cellar and back into the sunlight. I cover my tunnel back up and dash off into the bushes.

I streak through the flower patch of the old lady who sometimes sells embroidered hangings and blankets at the market and vanish into a dense tangle of thorns and wild berry bushes. On the other side is a long stretch of meadow dotted with poles holding up electrical wires. I weave in and out of the tall grasses filling the meadow, circle a telephone pole a couple times and then slip neatly into the dense forest. Trekking along the bank of a small stream, I stash my food in a hole in the old willow tree and climb into a thickly leaved sycamore a few yards away and tuck neatly into the branches and wait. This detour into the forest has become habit, just in case I attract any pursuers. I'd make myself wait until the sun is fully up and any pursuer would be forced to abandon the chase to man their stands in the market.

The morning mist slowly being penetrated by the ever-growing morning sun lets beams of light flow onto my head and face, leaving dappled patterns of light on my skin. Bird songs are slowly becoming more vivid and alive as more songbirds echo their calls. From under a bush, I watch a sleek, russet fox slid out, take a quick drink from the stream before she dashes back into the undergrowth. A thought comes to mind.

_Alone in the forest with dying the only thing to worry about. I could leave my whole family behind and take off. No more distractions. I wouldn't need to steal so much anymore; I could feed myself. No responsibilities. No distractions. Nothing to get in the way of freedom. For once, it could be about me, myself, and I._

I watch the shadows move across the ground in accordance to the sun. Slowly, I slide down from my hiding place and retrieve my stash. I take off my bandanna and fill it with fresh raspberries from a bush near the stream and tuck it into my jacket. I whisper a good-bye to my glade as I weave back through the undergrowth to the urban part of District Five.

As I walk through the market, I stay off the streets and navigate smoothly through the bushes. I pull my jacket's collar up high as I pass through a crowd and pray that none of them would stop and stare at the stranger wearing a dark cap and a long brown jacket. They don't. I'm half convinced that half of the population in District Five is aware that I'm a thief and just let me get away with it, since it's my only real way to get food. Though the Peacekeepers in District Five aren't exceptionally strict, it still wouldn't be good if it became common knowledge that I stole in order to stay alive.

I kick off my boots as I tromp through the door of my house. I clumsily spread my findings across the table and pull a pitcher of orange juice from the refrigerator and set is beside the berries. As I trudge down the hall, I can hear Mom stirring from within her room. But, I'm sure that it'd be at least half and hour before she made an appearance.

I shed my street clothes in my room and pull on a pale green tunic with a foliage design at the hem along with tight, tight black pants underneath it that stop at the knee. I take off my army cap and let my hair fall loose and pin my bangs back with a green sparkly barrette that I found on the street about a year ago. I wash away the fake scars and powder from my face and hands in the bathroom and wander back to my room and remove a loaf of sourdough from under the floor for breakfast. The rest can be saved and used for either the feast tonight or later meals.

When I hear Mom's footsteps wandering down the hall, I set aside the knife I've been using to halve the berries and tuck the food that hasn't been prepared out of sight. She slams the empty bottle of whiskey on the table and drops heavily into the chair across from me. She murmurs an inaudible greeting as she grabs a slice of bread, clumsily smears some butter on it, and bites into it.

"Where'd you get such fine bread?" she asks.

"I made a trade," I reply.

"Must've been valuable whatever you traded."

"Nah. It was worth almost nothing. It was a good bargain."

She stays silent for a few moments as thoughts click into place. "You _stole_ this, didn't you?" she hisses, quickly dropping the bread onto her plate as though it'd burned her.

"I got us food, didn't I?"

"You know better than to steal! Behavior like that will only bring shame on your father's and your honor."

"What does it matter what I do? I'm keeping us alive!" I snap back.

"Life shouldn't be achieved this way."

"What other option do I have? You zone out and leave me alone to fend for myself! You'd have just kicked me out of the house, wouldn't you, if there wasn't an age limit. And sending me to the community home would just be shameful for you and Dad, right?"

She doesn't respond.

I rise in a huff. "Fine. I see how it is. Maybe if you're lucky, I'll be Reaped and sent to my death, and then everyone'd be happy." _That'd solve everything._

I kick my chair over and stomp out of the kitchen in a fury, leaving Mom at the table with her empty whiskey bottle for company


End file.
